Twisting
by CathyKing
Summary: Prompted by the snow across the UK today. A sequel to The Setting Or The Rising Of A Sun. This can be seen as an /alternative/ ending, but do not in any way feel you have to accept it as an ending. A few people wanted a more conclusive ending and I wanted to give it to them. So this is it (:


**The Setting Or The Rising Of A Sun can be found on my page (:**

**AN**: A short sequel to _The Setting Or The Rising Of A Sun_, prompted by the snow across the UK.  
I wasn't planning on continuing this story, _ever_, but I really want to write something. Be it short.  
And it ran away from me.

I'm posting this as a one short on its own as I know some people wanted an ending with more closure. I thought a lot about it and I wanted to give you this ending. However, I didn't want people to feel this has to be the ending.  
Believe in this ending, or the ending of _The Setting… _it truly is your feelings.

**Twisting **

Ca. One year after _The Setting_.

-X-

Millions of tidal plunges, diving downwards; pawing at the windows (brushing, sweeping, fondling the edges). The white freckles pattering against the ground, but it's not a patter.  
It's a silent waltz.  
The ribbon of movement blending and pulling and caressing.  
A tree shifts and stretches, yawning and slowly dragging its limbs. The snow rolls off into powder, dotted with bigger clumps, and moves with the wind – sheets of fine fragments advancing forwards.

James sits at the window; on the floor. (_They _still cannot persuade him towards the life of chairs. Not even that power point presentation).  
His dusty eyes a dark orb for reflection, the snow whirling and scattering like the thoughts behind those eyes; encased away and gathering momentum. (It's obvious to see. The sharpness behind the warm susurration of his serenity).  
James' hands move forward in an ancient ritual and press against the glass – clawing their way out into the snow.  
He wants to feel and see and smell, (And most importantly, _taste_).

Elizabeth's eyes move then. The soft bang with the press captures her attention, and the nagging feeling that has been worming away comes to the surface.  
She knows the click is coming.  
Even James, with the stoic patience of his father can't hold on much more. He's been at the window since the snow started. (His eyes lapping up the first snow since _Things-Began-To-Come-Together)_

"Mummy" His voice is soft, a calm lilt, and the perfect soundtrack to the flurry outside – so fast yet so peaceful.

"Yes, handsome?" James shuffles around towards her, she places her book down on her lap and looks at him – her hair pinned back, her smile warm; a few strands of dark watery hair drooping into her face (And James remembers, remembers all the nights he's settled down with them and twined his fingers into her hair).

"Can..." A shake of his head.  
A breath, and then the correction: "_May_we play?"

"Not yet, darling, but soon"

"Why?"

The question prickles something down her back.

"Daddy isn't home yet, and I promised we'd go out as a family; all three of us"

Her chest tightens and she waits for the moment.  
It doesn't come.  
Instead James nods softly, pulling at the edges of his dark blue jumper. (It's been knitted by Darcy's aunt. Elizabeth's lips tug, even _she _can't say no to the child). His eyes flicker back to the window but the slope of his body foreshadows more.  
"Okay"

He turns back now – and Elizabeth feels her chest squeeze impossibly tighter.  
It's hard for James; she knows it's hard (It's hard for _her_ too. Impossibly hard sometimes).  
His father stands there in the flesh before him, smiling easily, picking him up and talking to him –  
_developing _him.  
But the real world still spins, and James cannot be expected to realise truly how much the world revolves around its own axis, and not his. Darcy goes to work, his goes away on business and even though he still returns (_The wrecked promises whispered into the steady waters – the warm breaths and the feel of slow riding movement: _"_I'll always be here… with you, Elizabeth. I'm not letting you slip – not even a fraction") _there's always the moment of doubt.  
The moment in limbo where the brain springs – pulling towards two ideas.  
And sometimes you cave.  
Sometimes words just aren't able to move insecurity.

"Want to play with Daddy"

It's whispered, so softly, so quietly (Getting lost in a wind that doesn't even exist here). Elizabeth wants to tell Darcy – tell him how much James' heart _expands _(_Breathes) _when he thinks of him.  
She can't.  
She knows it's dangerous – Darcy blames his childhood on that. He blames his feeling of falling on _that. _  
The determination to be everything his father was.

"I know"

So,  
She doesn't tell Darcy when he wades home.  
James sees him making his way up the garden path. His coat tight around his lean figure, the brightness making him shine and darken at once.

The door pushes open and James scarpers away before Elizabeth can take hold of him.  
This happens every day, and she knows she needs to think of new tactics – it will be in vain though, nothing can stop her son reaching Darcy.  
She knows nothing ever will.

James is being scooped up into Darcy's arms (and Elizabeth knows he is tired, she can see it cross his face before he tucks it away – to deal with it later, or to pretend it doesn't exist). Elizabeth leans against the door frame; watching as the boy buries his face into Darcy's hair. The ends entwine. The white flakes still solid and dry.

"We've been waiting for you"  
Darcy turns towards her, his joyous smile darkening slightly (Burning amber not sunshine yellow)  
Something secret and _theirs _passes between them as he curls a hand against her waist, his lips tilting up again. His eyes flicker between the pair as James buries himself deeper into his grip – it's like he can't choose which to study, watch, absorb. And he can't.  
He won't ever choose.

"Hmm good. You can't go out and have fun without me" He turns his eyes to James as he says this. His face lights up and James beams in a blurred reflection.

—X—

It's dark when Darcy manages to rustle James back inside.  
It's late (_far too late_, Elizabeth corrects herself with a frown) before James is in bed and Darcy finally manages to strip out of his soaking, expensive, work suit and into warm pyjamas.

He comes padding to the bed, his muscles moving under the soft material. He's given himself to her, she notes. (_Constantly _reminding herself of the fact).  
He's _hers. _  
Everything he is, everything he does, feels – is hers.  
The birthmark, the one she traced those years ago is still hers. It always was and it will always remain hers.

The feeling overwhelms her sometimes.  
They make love, and it stretches. (Arches beyond everything, colourless but everything vivid. Everything wild and tame and safe and wanted. The shift and press of hips, lips, hands and fingers moulding and relaxing).  
Their hears clench and ache, moving and rolling and pulsing; contracting until everything just bursts into flames and they're toppling.  
Gripping hold of hot sweaty skin and tracing their lips across the tear tracks.

They feel like six a.m. on the 17th of December, buried deep within the cave of white dreams when the snowy cascades tap-tap-tap at the window pane, but there's no need to be accommodating (So they _tap-tap-tap _and you let them).

Darcy's lips skate to her ear, he leans in – his cologne heady (her heart dropping to a tugging reverberation in her chest).  
"_Marry Me" _

Her fingers, reverent and trembling, run up his back to the mark.  
Finding it without a thought. A natural passage.  
A comfortable one.  
She brandishes the only imperfection Darcy can't control with the press of her fingers.

And Darcy knows.  
He knows and everything rips away again.

_Yes. _


End file.
